It may be time to tell my story too.

I grew up in a time (many decades ago) where your private life was kept private—even to your parents.

Looking back on my life many years later, I still can remember two incidents vividly.

The first happened in the sixth grade. I was in Glenda Greutzmacher’s class at Perkins Elementary School in Des Moines, Iowa. I had just started learning to play the flute. Once a week I was dismissed from class for a half hour to take a flute lesson at the school. The individual classes were held in a small room half a flight above the second floor. My flute teacher, a local man, came in weekly for the lesson. The thing I most vividly remember about these lessons was that he would repeatedly stroke my upper leg. I thought this was odd but never mentioned it. Nothing further happened.
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Then when I was around 25 or 26 and newly married another incident happened. My former husband and I had just moved to a new city. One of his friends, who I knew too, already lived there. We went to visit him and have him show us around one weekend. After an evening on the town, and there had been a little drinking involved although I did not do much, we returned to his two-bedroom apartment on a Saturday night. My husband decided to call it a night and went to bed. I remained in the living room talking to our friend when suddenly I was assaulted. He leaped on me and tried to pull off my clothes. I fought and could not believe this was happening. I managed to escape to our bedroom.

These were the kinds of events that I grew up knowing I should never mention because, somehow, I would be the one who would be seen as being at fault (for being female, I guess).

Because of this I have never told anyone about these except very recently, my husband. But now, more than fifty years later, it is time.